How many a thing which we cast to the ground, When others pick it up, becomes a gem!

The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.

Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.

A witty woman is a treasure; a witty beauty is a power.

There is nothing the body suffers which the soul may not profit by.

Who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is answered.

Caricature is rough truth.

Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.

Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar.

We are betrayed by what is false within

Perfect simplicity is unconsciously audacious.

Walking with Murphythrough the bone-freezing chilltoward the bus stop, I start shivering.And somehow, when he slips his arm around meto warm me up, it feels right.Righter than anything ever has.

For a minute there, I thought I stood a chance. But I guess in the end, Mitchell will still be the lucky one.

If you write, and you are really alone (writing is a lonely thing), you learn to be alone without suffering. When you read, you also learn to do this. When you write, you deal with things.

we must not blame our poor symbols if they take forms that seem trivial to us, or absurd, ... however paltry they may be; the nature of our life alone has determined their forms.

Liberty is the freedom of individual to express, without external hindrances, his personality.

The pleasure was all yours.

The Logos was divine, not the divine Being himself.

I got interested in the question of literacy because writers are always moaning about why more people don't read books. They long for the good old days when people read serious novels.

Attaching a Creator to the boundary is metaphysical skullduggery.

A well-made salad must have a certain uniformity; it should make perfect sense for those ingredients to share a bowl.